


The Brokenstone Scam

by writerfan2013



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Disappearance, F/M, Fraud, Locked Room Mystery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-23
Updated: 2013-09-23
Packaged: 2017-12-27 10:33:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 15,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/977726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writerfan2013/pseuds/writerfan2013
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A young girl vanishes, and Joan and Sherlock must set aside their increasingly complicated relationship questions to solve the mystery. Friendship and a light layer of romance. Set after Morning Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Prologue**

Cara sat at her desk in the dimly lit bedroom, typing in a phone conversation. Her part was easy, but the words for him just didn't seem right tonight. She and Ryan had been seeing each other for a while, and she was starting to tell her so called school friends that they were going steady.

Tonight was heavy going, though: she had a week's worth of texts and emails to set up, and the love just wasn't there.

After an hour of making up cute messages he could send her, Cara had had enough. She decided that maybe she was cooling towards Ryan. That would provide a little drama, actually.

Sometimes she thought she enjoyed the breakups more than the getting together.

She rubbed her eyes.

When she looked back at the screen, there was a new message from Ryan.

Not possible.

She clicked the options. Had she just blanked out on typing it? Things had been pretty crazy lately in more ways than one.

She watched as another message popped up on the screen under Ryan's name.

This was beyond weird. And on top of school and everything, not what she needed right now.

She was packing the notebook away from the gaze of her PPs - paranoid parents - when a knock on the window made her jump.

She was five storeys up with no balcony. Their apartment was in a block on its own gated lot. No-one was outside her window. It had been a bird, or something.

She crossed the room and opened her curtains.

Her parents, downstairs in the living room, only heard her scream.

* * *

**Chapter 1**

He was such a child. Joan knew how old he was, from his case file - but found it hard to reconcile the number of years he'd been alive with the behaviour she saw demonstrated on a daily basis.

His enthusiasm and joy in small discoveries, his vulnerability, his spongelike absorption of trivial detail - these were the endearing side of his childlike behaviour. The petty refusal to take responsibility for household chores, the self centred world view, and the startling arrogance -these were less appealing.

Joan had developed a facial expression which she found herself using more and more when Sherlock displayed his inner child. She thought of it as her 'I can't believe you're forty' face.

Sherlock did not care. He gave her his 'you are impinging on my mind palace' face and carried on.

Today he was blissfully involved with an internet study into the effects of social networking sites on traditional conversation skills. He was hunched over the keyboard, headphones on, occasionally barking a word or two at the screen. After intervals of terse speech there followed periods of furious typing.

"Who are you talking to?" Joan whispered as she put a cup of tea down on the table beside him.

"A lecture hall in Palo Alto. I'm their keynote webcaster."

"Right. I'll be upstairs with my copy of Classic Autopsies Monthly."

They both turned as the phone began to ring.

"Don't mock, Watson! Mockery demeans the mocker as much as the mockee. No, not you, professor. My colleague at this end, although that does form a nearly perfect example of -"

Joan rolled her eyes and went to answer the phone.

"Hey Joanie."

"Hi Toby, how are you?"

"Not great as a matter of fact. Can you and Sherlock get over here?" He gave the address.

"We'll be right there," she promised. Gregson made a noise like a wince of pain. "Are you ok?"

"I'm doing fine." He rang off.

Three minutes later, Sherlock and Joan were in the street and heading for the crime scene.

 


	2. Chapter 2

"It's a kidnap," said Gregson as he led them through the security barrier of an expensive apartment block. Sherlock was looking all round and up at the brick faced modern building. Joan looked too. There was an underground car park, and some neat landscaping, but nothing remarkable.

"A fifteen year old girl taken from her bedroom last night. Tall, slim, pretty, blonde hair, last seen in jeans and a pink t shirt.". Sherlock caught Gregson's eye aa they waited for the lift. "I heard it on the scanner."

"No witnesses, nobody saw anything. The whole family were in the house when it happened. They hear a scream from upstairs, rush up and find the door wedged shut from the inside. When they break it down, she's gone."

"Clever," said Sherlock. "How long to break into the room? A few minutes?" Gregson shrugged.

"The room has windows which only open an inch or two. Not enough for someone to get in. The only people seen leaving the building were residents. The family has searched the whole block and the girl, name of Cara Bissell, is gone."

They ride the lift to the fifth floor. Gregson turned to Sherlock. "I called you in because I hoped you would figure out how the girl was snatched from a locked room. But I have to warn you - go easy on the parents. They're freaking out "

"That's understandable," said Joan as they exited the elevator into a carpeted foyer.

"Sure. But these people are specially freaking out because they, ah, kind of superstitious." He knocked on the apartment door - the only door in the foyer, Joan noticed - and gave Sherlock a hard stare. "Go easy, right?"

The door opened and they went inside.

They entered a luxurious double height living room with pale carpets, lots of greenery, and large windows. Curtains were drawn across, but brass lamps kept the room bright.

Mrs Bissell was a mature woman in her mid to late fifties. She wore a cream blouse and cardigan which Joan instantly identified as designer - Jil Sanders, she guessed - and slacks of the same fluid cut. Her face was pale and her make up a little blurred from tears, but she received them calmly and introduced herself.

Sherlock was already hunting through the apartment as Joan and Gregson sat on a white leather couch.

"My husband is in his study. He'll be out in a moment." Mrs Bissell gave a weak smile. "Can I offer you coffee, or tea?" Everyone declined.

After introductions, Gregson asked Mrs Bissell to go through the events of the previous night.

"We were down here - I was tidying up the dinner things, my husband was working - and Cara was upstairs doing homework."

"Ha," said Sherlock, and was hushed by Joan's glare.

"We heard a scream and rushed up."

"It's the penthouse," said a man, Joan presumed Mr Bissell, comng in. He was a tall, good looking man in his early thirties. He wore a grey suit of a cut Joan thought she had seen before, but couldn't place.

"When we got up there the door was jammed. She - or someone - had wedged it from the inside. The inside!" Mr Bissell stared from Sherlock to Joan. His voice had an edge of panic. "We hammered down the door but by the time we got in, she was gone. Our daughter, my only child, gone." His face crumpled and he put his hands over his eyes.

Mrs Bissell reached across to comfort him. "Have faith," she said. "Cara is one of the chosen."

Bissell just shook his head. "Someone got in here," he said. "They got in and took her and now you have to find her!"

"Can we see the room where she disappeared?" Sherlock asked. They all made their way to the corner of the living room, where a brass balustraded spiral staircase rose from a collection of nearly ceiling-height potted palms.

Aa they ascended the stairs Sherlock leaned over to peer down into the foliage. "Hmn," was all he said.

"How long had your daughter been upstairs before you heard the scream?" Sherlock asked as they made their way along a heavy carpeted passage to Cara's bedroom.

"An hour," suggested Mrs Bissell. "Maybe more. I was busy clearing up after dinner, and my husband was working."

"So you had not actually seen her for an hour or more when ypu realised she was gone. Hmmm " Sherlock said again.

The bedroom was pleasant but plain. Joan thought back to her own teenage room, and noticed the absence of pop posters, sports paraphernalia, or cosmetics. There was a notebook on the desk, some school books, and that was about it.

Sherlock got the nod from Gregson to look at the notebook. He put on gloves and scrolled through system files, frowning. "Does your daughter enjoy music, Mrs Bissell?"

Mrs Bissell shrugged. "We aren't really a musical family. We don't watch a lot of TV, don't keep up with popular culture. We spend a lot of time with people from our church."

Sherlock had already abandoned the notebook. He examined the windows. Each swung out just a few inches before being stopped by a bolt.

"It's not been tampered with," Gregson said.

"It is the work of devils," said Bissell. "Cursed demons have entered and spirited away my beautiful daughter!" Again he seemed on the point of collapse.

"Michael. Be still. This man will find our daughter." Mrs Bissell turned to Sherlock. "Won't you, Mr Holmes?"

"I will do my best," Sherlock said. He wandered out into the passage and looked over the bannister into the living room.

"You are unlucky with palms, yes?"

"What?" Mrs Bissell said.

"This plant pot is empty. Yet from its size it must have held a venerable plant. Did you lose one to blight, or overwatering?"

"A tropical disease, common in this type of palm." Mr Bissell spoke. "Our plant contractor took it out last week, and the replacement will be here soon."

"I see."

He turned back to the bedroom.

Joan was watching him. This was Sherlock at his best. The intent, the focus, the passion...

She blinked, and became aware that she had been gazing fixedly at Sherlock. As she looked around, she saw Gregson watching her in turn.

He gave her a slight smile, nothing to offend the Bissells. Joan inclined her head and looked back at Sherlock.

Now Sherlock was crouched down. He held up a chunk of wood. "Is this what was used to wedge the door?"

Gregson nodded.

"It's had a nail put in the end," Sherlock said. He showed them the small hole. "And..." He spent a few moments scratching at it. "Yes, here: a thread from a bit of string."

Gregson pounced on it. "So the door was pulled shut from the outside."

"Exactly." Sherlock turned to the parents, who were looking shocked. "So tell me, Mr and Mrs Bissell, what reason would your daughter have had to run away?"

 


	3. Chapter 3

Gregson hauled Sherlock back to the lounge. Mr Bissell looked shocked. Mrs Bissell kept a guarded face. A strong person, Joan thought. She waits for the details before judging.

Everyone recongregated in the lounge. Bissell disappeared into his study and came back clutching a small pearl inlaid box. "My medication,' he muttered.

Mrs Bissell poured iced drinks from a jug on the coffee table.

"Cara Bissell did not run. She was snatched," Gregson said. "You think we haven't been over all this? The girl went from home to school by chauffeured car. She had no friends outside school, no hobbies, sports, social life. She knew only her parents and the people from their church."

"That's a lonely life," Joan said softly.

"Yes, but today, we have the power of the internet to help lift us from our isolation and connect us to an entire globe of potential friends." Sherlock paced up and down. As always, Joan was struck by how his mental energy translated into the physical. His hands clenched and unclenched as he thought. "And Cara may have had a friend that nobody knew about."

"Did you find any trace of one on that computer?" Gregson asked. His outburst was over and he was leaning on the wall, hands in pockets, watching Sherlock calmly. He was the opposite of Sherlock, Joan thought. Gregson was calm and solid, clever and methodical, reliably producing results. Sherlock was nervy and fragile, brilliant and mercurial, working in bursts of extreme activity followed by utter exhaustion and boredom.

"No. But while I am good, I am not a computer expert. I suggest you get one to check more closely." Sherlock cast his eyes over the Bissells, and drank from the glass placed nearest him.

"I assure you we already have," said Gregson. "There's nothing to suggest the girl was in contact with anyone suspicious. And before you ask, we're already canvassing the other residents here, plus people from the church."

"What makes you say she ran away?" Joan asked Sherlock.

"Thank you, Watson, I was wondering when someone would ask about that." Sherlock gave Gregson an acerbic stare. "Obviously the wedge under the door. A nail hammered in and string attached, then snipped off once the door had been pulled shut. The wood splintered, leaving it hard to tell that the wedge had not been applied from the inside."

"Ok," said Gregson. "That just proves that she, or someone, closed that door from the outside, at some point." He raised a hand to silence the Bissells' protests.

Sherlock went on, swirling the drink round in his glass. "Also, the cleanliness of the room. I thought at first that the kidnapper may have tidied away any evidence, for example of a struggle... But I think now that Cara herself made sure that all was in order, much as you might clean the house before going away on holiday."

Joan gave him an amazed look at that idea. Any cleaning done by Sherlock was under duress and only when the filth prevented the doors opening.

"But a crucial difference between this and a leisure trip is the lack of a trail on her computer. The cache is empty and all browsing history has been wiped out. It seems that Cara was either habitually paranoid, or keen to remove evidence on this occasion, or both."

He glanced at Joan. "I saw you looking at her clothes rail. Did you notice anything?"

"Not many clothes," Joan said. "Certainly compared to most wealthy teenage girls."

"I concur. And from the gaps between hangers, I believe that a selection of clothes have recently been removed - possibly by a kidnapper, but much much more likely by a girl planning on running away."

Mrs Bissell gasped. "My daughter is a dutiful and honest girl. She would never terrify us by running away, never put herself in danger."

"And yet she is gone and she has taken clothes with her," said Sherlock. "Interesting that you waited nearly twenty four hours to call the police."

"We were searching for her! The church..." Bissell nodded as his wife defended their actions.

"Yes, your first thought was to question your congregation. Another fascinating detail..."

"Ok, ok." Gregson held up his hands to stop Sherlock. "So where is she? And how did she get out? Her parents were sitting downstairs the whole time. And they ran upstairs as soon as they heard her scream." The Bissells nodded eagerly.

"I don't think she screamed," Sherlock said. "At least, not yesterday." He glanced from one to the other. "It was a recording, disguised as a music file on her computer."

Joan recalled him asking about Cara's music taste.

"She only had one set of music files " Sherlock said, "conventionally located in her computer's music folder. I was looking at the tracks and noticed that there was one file which was far smaller than the rest. Small equals either low quality or very short, and I'm guessing the latter. She recorded her own scream, perhaps days ago, and set it to replay once she'd safely left her room."

He paused. "The title of the replaced track supports my guess. The album was a vintage one, perhaps selected at random by someone without a handle on current popular culture. The Works, by the band Queen. And the track was entitled, rather significantly I thought, I Want to Break Free."

Neither Joan nor Gregson reacted. Sherlock spread his hands. "The 1984 anthem which came to stand for freedom in life choices? Adopted by anti oppression groups around the world? The accompanying video featured members of the band, including the moustachioed Freddie Mercury, dressed as women and performing household chores-? It was banned by MTV for being too controversial."

The Bissells flinched at his description.

"I'll take your word for it," Gregson said, taking out his notepad.

Sherlock noticed that Joan was staring at him. "What?"

She smiled. "I never realised you followed pop music."

"I don't. But Queen were a seminal band and in 1984 I was twelve. Some cultural influences are hard to resist." He had a faraway look for a second, then snapped back.

"So Cara Bissell was not kidnapped " said Gregson. "Please carry on with the how she left the apartment and the where she is."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "Ah yes. As to where, I'm not sure yet, though I don't believe she is in any danger. But how, that is quite straightforward."

He moved to the spiral staircase.

"The empty plant pot," he said then. "Cara crept out of her room onto the landing. When her mother was looking the other way, she came down the stairs - or perhaps climbed straight over - and dropped down into the giant pot. She then waited for the recorded scream. Maybe, if she got the chance, she could slip out of the apartment even sooner. In any case, when her parents were distracted, probably trying to kick down her bedroom door, Cara let herself quietly out of the apartment."

"Why the plant pot?" asked Gregson.

Sherlock bent to reach into the tall white pot. When he straightened up he was holding a brass bobby pin. "Hairclip." He handed it, holding it with his handkerchief, to Gregson.

"Lucky the pot was empty " Joan said, ending on a slight questioning note.

"Not luck, Watson. I imagine Cara killed the plant, then got the gardener to remove it. Maybe she even told him not to bring a replacement yet."

"We wondered why he left it empty..." Bissell said faintly.

"Right, so she runs from the apartment. But this place is pretty tight. How did she get out into the street?" Gregson was making a couple of notes.

"Simple. She got in the lift, put on a chauffeur's uniform, and went down to the garage."

"Hold on. You're saying she drove herself out of here?" Gregson was skeptical. But he was listening. As always, Joan realised, Sherlock had introduced doubt into a seemingly simple scenario.

"Where was her chauffeur outfit?" Joan wanted to know. "Her room is spartan, there was nowhere to hide anything."

"I think... I think she hid a basic jacket and hat outside the bedroom." Sherlock made a dangling motion with his fingertips. "The window opens a crack. And it's about level with the down pipe, close to a fixing. If you were careful, you could put some clothes in a bag, tie them to the down pipe and hook them back in when you needed."

"Wouldn't someone see a bag on the building?" Joan asked.

"Did we give the place one look on the way in? And from close up, the penthouse would require a severe crick of the neck to look up at."

"I don't buy it," said Gregson. "A fifteen year old girl, at the wheel of her parents' car. The guy in the security booth would have seen her. "

"The guy in the security booth has a signed photo of Hugh Laurie taped to his monitor. Back-to-back episodes of House were showing last night from ..." Sherlock tapped at his phone - "...six pm - an all weekend Doctor House extravaganza. I imagine it would have been hard for him to tear his eyes from all the Hugh goodness to notice a shorter, more female chauffeur than usual at the wheel of the familiar Bissell car."

"The car's back in place now," Joan said. "She would have to bring it back..."

"Or call the real chauffeur and have him pick it up. " Sherlock waved a hand. "I'm not saying all these details are exactly how it was done. I am just using them to make the point that it could have been done."

There was a silence as they all digested this.

Gregson rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Great," he said at last. "So now we're still looking for a missing girl, but one who's faked her own kidnap."

"And, presumably knowingly, royally freaked our her own parents. Yes." Sherlock drummed his fingers against his lips. "So why did she run, and where did she go?

"She's fifteen," said Joan. "She barely knows anybody. She's led a totally sheltered life. Even if she planned all this, she's still in danger."

"My point precisely," said Gregson. "We have to find her. Which will not be easy in a town like this."

"Especially," said Sherlock, his eyes glittering, "as this girl is clever."

He turned to Joan. "I need to think. Assuming that Captain Gregson will now be occupied with burning questions such as, why did the Bissells fail to report their daughter missing for twenty four hours, and where did their car go last night..." Gregson gave him a weary grimace of agreement... "Walk with me, Watson. Your company helps me process information. So long as you say nothing."

Joan put down her drink, which had been pretty unpleasant anyway, and rose to her feet. "I'm not making any promises."

"I know," said Sherlock. He looked sideways at her, half furtive, half challenging. It was a look she had seen... that night - and it threw her off balance now.

She got a grip on herself and began to bid Gregson and the Bissells goodbye, but was interrupted by the house phone.

Bissell went back into his office to answer. He was back immediately, "The church!" He grabbed his throat and took gulps of air. "There's a fire at the church, I have to get down there now."

"What? Not now!" cried his wife, jumping up.

"Yes now." He stuffed the tiny box he had been holding earlier into his coat pocket.

Gregson rose too. "We'll give you a ride." He left no room for argument.

Sherlock turned to Joan. "You're off the hook, Watson. I can always think clearly in the back of a car. It soothes me somehow."

"Great, think of the cab fare," said Gregson. "The ride is for the Bissells." He held the door for them, and then Joan.

Sherlock stood close to Joan in the lift, squashed against the wall by Gregson and the Bissells. He faced forward, but spoke down into her hair. "There's more happening here than just this case."

Joan could not see his face to read his expression, but felt his breath on her neck as he murmured, "People follow their emotions. As a song once said, they follow the love. But where is the love here, Watson? Hmmm?"

The elevator ticked down through the floors to zero, and Sherlock straightened up and walked out past Joan as if he'd never spoken.

 


	4. Chapter 4

The church was narrow and grey between two crummy looking apartment buildings, far from the comfortable area of the Bissells' sumptuous apartment. And it was on fire.

As Joan and Sherlock jumped out of their cab, a fire truck was hosing the front of the church. A stained glass window, already half boarded up, had flopped forward as the lead melted from the heat of the blaze inside. A crowd of people from the apartments nearby - old men, young women carrying several children - were corralled behind a police line.

Madeline Bissell was weeping, shoving her husband's comforting arm aside. Bissell shrugged and went to stand and stare at the blaze. He seemed transfixed.

An elderly black woman called to Madeline from the crowd. The two women hugged and Madeline spoke softly to her, still crying.

Joan heard her say, "It is in God's hands now. We must see how he treats the faithful. And how he punishes the wrong."

Sherlock was itching to get closer. "What started it? Who called the fire service? Can the building be saved?"

Gregson returned from a briefing with the fire chief. "It's under control. But it'll be a few hours before we can get inside safely." He glanced at Sherlock and spoke in a lower voice. "We can't rule out the idea that this was not an accident."

"Accident?" said Sherlock. "Surely no one here thinks for a moment that this was an accident?"

They looked at him.

"Firstly,"said Sherlock, "the church. It is a plain brick building, faced with stone, and if memory serves, will have stone floors and cheap plastic chairs instead of wooden pews. The roof beams will be wood, but I recall they were mostly replaced with steel after a structural survey in the late seventies showed signs of rot."

"You know this church?" asked Joan.

"I wrote a brief paper on urban religious architecture a few years back. And I looked up this church on the planning site on the City in the taxi." He held up his phone. "so in short, there is not much to burn. A few hymnbooks, maybe. Some cassocks, if any are still hanging around after the demise of the pews. So what, exactly, caught fire? "

"An electrical fault," Gregson suggested. "These old buildings have the worst safety record."

"True." Sherlock nodded. "But what is it that is burning away in there so nicely? The stone walls? Or do you think it is the pulpit which is flaming away like a good'un?"

They looked at the blaze as the fire crew smashed in the stained glass to keep it from falling onto the street.

"But another fact supports my theory of foul play," Sherlock went on. "Bissell's behaviour. He is the priest of this church, yes? The shepherd of his devoted flock. Yet he stands there making no move to comfort the neighbours, some of whom may be his worshippers, and he has not once enquired about the safety of anyone who may have been inside. Instead, he is watching the progress of the fire. And who do we know who likes to watch fires?"

"Arsonists," said Joan. "They come back to the crime scene and see the effects of their actions. It's a psychological need for power rather than a desire for violence."

"Precisely!"

Gregson held up his hands. "I agree, this is suspicious. But we don't have the evidence in and we can't get into the building until the fire chief gives us the all clear. Believe me they will also be looking for signs of any deliberate arson."

Even as they spoke a dismayed cry went up from one of the firefighters emerging from the building in full smoke safety gear. He raised his arm and several of his colleagues rushed forward into the flames.

Joan shivered. "I know that wail."

"So do I," said Gregson grimly. "Looks like the church wasn't empty."

Sherlock and Joan moved to stand with the other onlookers as a screen was erected and an ambulance - no lights flashing - drew close to the church. Nothing could be seen but the horror hung heavy in the air.

"This is a terrible thing," said an elderly black man in a strong French accent.

"Yes, yes, it is terrible," agreed his companion, a woman in colourful printed clothes.

"This poor man is tested indeed. After what happened before-"

Sherlock's eyebrows went up. Seconds later he was deep in conversation with the pair.

Joan moved away to let him work. She glimpsed Gregson, conferring with the fire crew at the edge of the rubberneckers screen. He came away, shaking his head, and saw Joan.

"Bad news?" Joan asked. "Is it what we thought?"

Gregson winced. "It's not clear. There's... flesh...and the remains of clothing. But, and I don't mean to be to explicit here, but there isn't enough flesh."

It took Joan a moment. "You mean it's a body part? Not a whole body?"

Gregson nodded. "So now it's kidnap or runaway, arson and murder. The Bissells do seem to attract some trouble."

"And not for the first time." Sherlock bounded back to them. "Just chatting to some worthy members of the community I have learned that Bissell moved to this church - in a purely stand-in capacity at the time - after his last church mysteriously burned to the ground."

Gregson's face darkened. "Time for a different kind of search at the Bissells' property. The kind that starts with a warrant."

"Oh, goody. Do we get a ride in the police car this time?"

"No," said Gregson. "But if you find the girl alive and well, I'll pay for the cab."

Sherlock sighed melodramatically and went to hail a taxi.

"This has really cheered him up," Gregson commented drily.

Joan suppressed a sigh.

"Joanie - you free for dinner tonight? Be great to catch up."

"I'll let you know," she said. "You know how Sherlock is when he's on a case."

"Watson!" shouted Sherlock from the kerb. "If you like you can walk, or you can get in this cab!"

Gregson and Joan nodded at each other, looked for a long moment, and parted.

 


	5. Chapter 5

The cab took them back to the Bissell's apartment, lurching through the shortest route and several times throwing Joan against Sherlock's shoulder. He steadied her with his arm, in an unthinking gesture, his eyes fixed on his phone.

A uniformed cop met them at the door and after some insults from Sherlock and persuasion from Joan, let them enter. "Don't disturb anything," he told them. "The Bissells are not here."

"No," agreed Sherlock. "They've gone to try to identify the gruesome remains of their only child in the fire at the church."

The cop reacted. "That information is not yet released."

"Doesn't need to be," said Sherlock. He sauntered through the lounge and up the spiral staircase to Cara's room. "It's deducible."

Joan watched as he sat once again at Cara's desk and opened her laptop. "What now?"

Sherlock waved a hand dismissively. "The piece of flesh will have had some fragment of cloth or leather with it, suggestive of the remains of a familiar item of Cara's clothing. The distraught parents are even now having the news broken to them and being asked if they can recall their daughter wearing something in that colour, et cetera et cetera. And just like that, it becomes a suspected murder case. Which will make finding the missing girl even more awkward than before."

Joan sat down on Cara's bed. "But the flesh isn't hers?"

Sherlock glanced round with an irritated expression. "No, of course not. Why would she run away to her own father's church? She wants rid of him, not to become another dutiful little worshipper."

Joan sat in silence and digested this. Sherlock poked at the laptop.

"It's not human flesh, is it," Joan said after a while.

"Nope."

"It's pig flesh, which is structurally very similar to that of humans –"

"Hence the cannibalistic term for us, supposedly 'long pork' –"

"- And someone put it there to make people think that Cara died in the fire."

"Yup."

"Cara put it there," Joan said then. "She wants to put her family and the police off her trail, and confuse the issue with a suspected murder. That would give her more time to get away."

"Correct. But it raises one very interesting question – how did she know there was going to be a fire?" Sherlock spun round on the swivel chair and pointed at Joan. "She predicted it, clever girl, and used her prediction to cause her parents trouble. Which tells us..."

"... that he's done it before."

"My point exactly. Well done, Watson." Sherlock returned to rapid typing on the laptop. "From my conversation with some of the distraught parishioners, I discovered that this is not the first time Mr Bissell's calling has been tragically interrupted. They couldn't remember the name of the town where it happened but it was something like... yes. Brokenstone."

Joan came to peer over his shoulder. A photo of a pretty white church, New England style, set among trees and roses, headed the website entitled Brokenstone Chapel Restoration Project. Sherlock scrolled down. Joan saw another picture – this time of a ruin, only the stone font and a few crooked tombstones remaining in the churchyard. The church itself was a pile of smoke-darkened embers.

Sherlock looked up at her. His eyes caught the light from the window, and Joan saw the bright mind glinting within them. She was standing right beside him and his expression was open and clear, pure Sherlock, his whole being focused on his work.

It would be totally inappropriate - a young girl's bedroom, a crime scene even - but for a fleeting moment Joan planned to kiss him.

He must have seen her eyelashes droop because his own eyes flickered in confusion.

Joan caught herself, recovered. "You could have googled on your phone," she said mildly.

"And so I did, but I wanted to see if Cara's laptop confirmed the connection between this burned out church and the one at Brokenstone. And it does." Sherlock glanced back at Joan quizzically but she folded her arms and stared down his unspoken question. He went on. "It seems she has kept a number of links to it, including this page about its restoration, and a few pictures of the pleasant looking place where she lived before her parents came here after the mysterious, and no doubt lucrative, fire."

Joan watched as Sherlock flicked through pages of pictures – Cara outside the white church, Cara much younger with kindergarten friends. The clothes and the cars and the shots of their old home showed little sign of wealth.

"They look happy," she said.

"Happy but greedy. Mr Bissell arrived in New York a wealthy man and found a failing church with a pastor who needed a little help. Bissell volunteers and proceeds to build up the congregation with amazing success. Now he's the pastor. At the first sign of a crisis, the new place burns to a crisp."

"He was insured?"

Sherlock frowned. "I'm not sure... I need to find out how it works. Property insurance of religious buildings is not really my area."

Joan waited for him to abandon the laptop, but he did not. He drummed his fingers for a moment and then trawled again through Cara's file system. "Aha!"

The list of recently visited websites appeared. "Knew I could find it. Let's have another look at Cara's online history..."

He pressed Print and shut the laptop just as chimes sounded throughout the house. "That'll be Gregson back with the Bissells. Let's go, shall we, I wouldn't want to intrude."

He snatched up the sheaf of paper from Cara's printer and gave it to Joan. "Take these, don't let anyone see you've got them."  
"What?"

"Come on, you've got a handbag, use it! Ah, Captain Gregson. We were just on our way out."

* * *

 

Joan put down the pile of papers and sipped her tea. They had been going through everything they could find about Cara's life, trying to work out where she would be now. Her school friends, her hobbies, her internet habits... so far , she appeared to have led a completely ordinary, even dull life. Nothing suggested that she was planning to run away, much less where to.

Sherlock had become sullen and scowling at the lack of progress. "Watson, we're miserable," he declared.

"Speak for yourself," said Joan.

"Don't try to deny it. I know that fixed smile. You're miserable, despondent, full of angst and despair. So I say – let's go somewhere which compounds these prime teenage emotions into a perfect distillation of discomfort and discontent. Let's pay a visit to Cara's school."

 


	6. Chapter 6

"She was a total slut." The words were throwaway and final. "She had so many boyfriends." The brightly made-up blonde shook back her hair in disgust.

"She got through them," agreed the other girl, flicking her jewelled nails together with a nasty plastic sound.

"She thought it was cool to show up with a picture of a new guy on her phone every week, but it was just beyond sad. She was desperate, giving it away to anyone who asked."

"God, and the rows. She would have these vicious text rows with them and then ditch them. Then two minutes later, another boyfriend. Some guy she would think was perfect for two minutes. Like the latest one, perfect Ryan..."

They all chorused "Ryan," in bored harmony.

"And her parents are like these strict pastors. Cara was just a total loser."

Joan was fighting to maintain a neutral expression, faced with all this bile against a missing fifteen year old.

But Sherlock appeared immune. "Ah, yes, the proof is in the progeny, as they say. So you last saw Cara in class. You didn't socialise outside of school?"

The girls' teacher returned to the room with the class schedules Sherlock had requested. The students' snide demeanor subsided noticeably.

"No..." Much head shaking and a few quick glances at the teacher. "She was too busy studying or in church."

"What about other people in the class? Was Cara friendly with anyone else?" Sherlock asked. But nobody was prepared to confess to being Cara's friend. "This is an exclusive school," the teacher explained. "Cara was a new girl from a different background. She seemed to find it hard to fit in."

The interview was brief and Joan and Sherlock left with nothing.

"So much viciousness," said Joan as they escaped back onto the street. "The cliques, the meanness, the sheer... bitchiness."

Sherlock nodded. "Yes, it takes me back. But didn't you think it was odd, how they formed an absolute phalanx of hatred for Cara Bissell? A bright, pretty girl, always did her homework, conventional and well versed in all the ways to fit in. Why did not one friend pop up to defend her?"

"Shock," suggested Joan. "They don't want to go near it."

"You're right, but for the wrong reason. It's fear. They made Cara Bissell's already unhappy life a total misery, and now she's run away. And they've driven her to it."

"Guilt, " Joan said. "They were justifying their nasty behaviour by making her out to be worthless. So... Do they think she's run away with one of these boyfriends?"

"The ones she had all these dramatic arumenus with? Maybe." Sherlock frowned. "Something else was odd, don't you think? Where did Cara meet all these boyfriends?"

"And how come her parents knew nothing about it?" Joan frowned. "The missing persons report had no mention of a current boyfriend."

"And yet Ryan was a watchword among the mini harpies. We need to go through Cara's movements again. She was fitting Ryan or one of his predecessors in somewhere between home and school, and at this moment these are our only leads in finding Cara's whereabouts. Watson, you go through the class schedule. I am going to take tea with Mrs Bissell. I'll see you back at the house."

He held Joan's shoulder for a moment in farewell, and seemed about to add something.

But as usual, no words were spoken. His touch fell away and he moved to leave.

"I won't be back for a while,' Joan said on impulse. "I'm meeting Toby for some food." She made it sound casual, throwaway, as if it was a purely chance arrangement.

Sherlock gave an upwards nod. "Food, marvellous, where are we eating?"

"It's just me and him," Joan said. "You know, catching up. Like friends do."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "So three would be a crowd. Well, nobody likes a crowd. So crowded. Yes, horrid things, crowds. I'll leave you to it, then, enjoy your food." Raising his arm for a cab he stepped into the street.

Joan scowled. She had not even rung Toby yet and already she was in the wrong.

She saw a cafe and ducked in there for a restorative latte and a reluctant review of Cara's schedule.

...And soon, something stood out. She rang Sherlock but he did not pick up. So he was sulking, or as he would put it, busy. She gritted her teeth and texted him.

_-Cara only visited school and study websites. Most frequent was the PhysicsHelp one. But Cara's classes were all Languages and Arts. She never took Physics._

Joan waited. Would a word of praise follow, an offhand acknowledgement that Joan had helped? Or would he claim to have discovered this already?

In fact it was another option. No reply at all.

Fine. Joan swiped away that message and composed another one, to Toby Gregson.

_-Dinner sounds great, why not tonight?_

An instant reply:

_-No reason at all, tonight it is._

The schoolgirls had tried to assuage their guilt by demonizing the object of it. But Joan did not know what to do with hers.

 


	7. Chapter 7

"Hey, Joanie."

"Hey, Toby."

They hugged and exchanged kisses. A smiling waitress showed them to their table, a good one upstairs with a great view overlooking the square. Gregson pulled out Joan's chair. They both sat.

When they had ordered, Gregson undid his jacket, settled in his seat and said, "Well, it's great to see you, but to what do I owe this honour?"

Joan took his hand. "No special reason. I just wanted to see you. I... missed you."

Toby brushed this off. "Sherlock too much on a full time basis, huh?"

Joan sipped water to cover her shock.

"Listen, I know, ok?" said Toby. "I'm a cop, I got eyes, I see the way he looks at you. Like he can't believe his luck. Hell, I would look the same way. But with him, everything is turned up to the max. He doesn't do casual. I'd be willing to bet that living with him is a strain."

Joan hesitated. She was still not sure Toby understood how far things had gone with Sherlock, that they had been ... lovers, although that term seemed to overstate it.

"I like your company," she said, buying time.

  
Toby chuckled. "Come on, Joanie. I know you and Sherlock are not just good friends. What am I, shocked? I'm not judging you. -Him, maybe a bit." He rolled his eyes.

Joan felt the colour rush to her cheeks. "I'm still not sure how it happened," she confessed. "But it.. I don't regret it. It was right. At that moment."

She realised too late that she had revealed too much about the nature of their liaison. Their one off liason. She closed her eyes for a second, then shook it off.

"You don't need to explain yourself to me, " Toby said. "And you know, I don't need details." He took a slurp of beer.

Joan cursed her own carelessness. "Toby, please, forgive me, let's start again. How are you? I heard you got the Subway Stabber."

"Yeah...we got him. I'm good, thanks."

They each sipped their drink in awkward silence. Joan looked at the tablecloth; she could feel Gregson looking at her.

"Maybe this was a bad idea." Joan pushed her glass away. "I'm sorry, Toby, I don't know what I was thinking."

"Stay." He put his hand over hers. "My stupid fault for mentioning Sherlock. It's none of my business."

He smiled at her. Joan blinked a couple of times, but could not resist the twinkle in his eyes. She smiled back.

"Great," said Gregson. "Now let's eat. The food at the precinct is ok, but the table service is terrible."

* * *

 

"So", Toby said, putting Joan's dessert spoon back on the plate, "what now? Do we pretend this wasn't a date and just say, See you at work tomorrow? Or do I get to walk you home, kiss you goodnight?"

"Maybe I should walk you home."

His face darkened. "Right, Sherlock. So... Is it really a thing, you and him? Will it be?"

Joan flinched from the look in Toby's eyes. "It's not a thing. I don't know what it was. But Sherlock is... I can't see him as some kind of boyfriend. He has women, ah, women friends." Gregson rolled his eyes. "That's fine. But I don't think that would be enough for me. Sherlock doesn't date. He doesn't acknowledge. He doesn't... celebrate. I am not there, in that sense, for him. It's like... having an imaginary friend."

Toby looked at Joan for a long time.

Finally he heaved a sigh. "So what am I in this scenario? The imaginary boyfriend?"

"I don't know. But I do know that it is so nice to have dinner with a man who looks at me appreciatively, who makes me laugh, who seems to care a little. I enjoy all those things."

"Ok... I guess I could retaliate by telling you that it is great to walk into a place with you on my arm and see every guy in here wondering what I'm doing so right." He chuckled and looked around. "And I know I'm kind of unreconstructed, but hey. And you're good company too, Joanie. Not fazed by the work stuff."

"Now I feel like a louse," said Joan.

"Don't. I'm here, aren't I?"

"I worry about Sherlock. His... Feelings. If he has any."

"Then don't let me do what I'm about to do."

He lifted her hand, and keeping his eyes on hers, kissed the inside of her wrist.

Then she heard again in her head, the line about the imaginary boyfriend. She gasped. "I've got to go. I must tell Sherlock. The boyfriend! He's the key."

 


	8. Chapter 8

Joan unlocked the door to the brownstone, phone still in her hand. Twenty minutes of texting Sherlock had produced no response. She had given up sighing about it. The conversations about Toby Gregson and dates and what had happened between her and Sherlock would all have to wait. There was a lead in the Bissell case at last, and she had found it. And now Sherlock was ignoring her.

"Oh, there you are. I couldn't find you anywhere." Sherlock was lying on the floor of the den holding a tablet up to read. He did not glance up. "You look nice."

Joan ripped off her scarf and threw it on the couch. "You knew where I was! I've sent you a dozen texts about –"

"The imaginary boyfriend, yes. And it's rather interesting."

Sherlock sat up and held out the tablet to Joan. She dropped, cross legged, to the floor beside him.

"Cara Bissell's browsing history, as extracted by me, plus a little analysis of when and how often she visited each site. Note the one at the top of the chart. PhysicsHelp, as you and I independently identified earlier."

"She spent a lot of time on it. Every day." Joan let pass the snipe about their supposedly simultaneous deductions.

"Especially for a girl not taking Physics." Sherlock flicked the surface of the tablet. "But when you go to the site, it appears normal... help with your quantum mechanics homework, yada yada yada, and then you sign up. And you see this."

Joan leant in. Her eyes widened. "I knew it . .."she breathed.

"Fake boyfriends online, for a fee. They also offer an alibi service. You type in your name..." Sherlock tapped rapidly ... "and some details about your preferred paramour - height, weight, ethnicity, interests and most importantly, how long you plan on seeing him or her for. And then voila! The site creates your fictional mate, complete with an invoice for the time you spend together."

Joan saw that for a username of Candy, Sherlock had created a desired boyfriend profile, which had now been fulfilled: older man at least twenty five, must love music, and have cute hair. One Direction fans preferred. "Candy?"

"Obviously fake, but the website is in no position to quibble. And before you ask, those other details have been added after much careful research into the current cultural interests of school age girls."

He glanced up at her with a hint of a smile. "Just don't look at my browsing history."

"So then what?" Joan asked. "You've paid money, what do you get?"

"You control the interactions. The site can send readymade texts and emails, or you can compose them yourself. Thus."

Sherlock tapped, and his phone played its new message notification. He held it up for Joan to read.

" _Hi babe. Missing you today. You're cute, and that's what makes you beautiful lol_."

Joan grimaced. "Sheer poetry."

"A badly quoted song lyric. But you see, you can time the messages, even add pictures."

"So Ryan really was Cara's imaginary boyfriend. Good.. but does it get us anywhere..."

"Not yet, but I haven't managed to access Cara's account. When I do I expect the delectable Ryan to reveal more than just his extensive knowledge of teen pop lyrics."

Joan noticed a white fluted mug on the table. "That's not one of ours, is it?"

"The cup? No indeed, that is a small and I have to admit unintentional gift from the fragrant Madeleine Bissell." Sherlock reached up and hooked the mug with a finger. "Fancy a taste?" Joan recoiled. "Just a sniff then." She inhaled hesitantly.

"What is that? Herbal, but.. what herbs...?" She did not ask why he had stolen a cup of tea. She knew he would have a reason and that he would reveal it to her when he chose. She even enjoyed this about him, that he was always surprising, and never conventional.

"I have a theory, but we'll have to wait until tomorrow morning to be sure." Sherlock replaced the mug and settled back with the tablet.

"Ok." Joan heaved herself to her feet. "I'm going to bed. You should too."

Sherlock turned his face up to her. He gave her a look she couldn't read. "Should I?"

She blinked as he continued to gaze at her.

"Do you want me to come with you, Watson?" he said then, enunciating as if for the hard of understanding. "To bed? I don't mind. It might help my thought process, and would certainly pass the time until we can work any more on solving this case."

Joan opened her mouth to speak but no words came. She thought of Toby, holding her gaze as he deliberately kissed her wrist. Toby in a decent suit, asking nicely if he could walk her home.

"What's the matter, Watson, not seductive enough for you? It's just a bodily function, you know. Another need which as adults we must meet. And as I am here, and you are here, then we may as well meet that need in the most expedient way."

His face was neutral, even vague.

Joan narrowed her eyes. "I'm tired," she said slowly, keeping everything in check, everything calm. "I don't feel up to a lot of expediency right now."

She turned and headed for the stairs before her face could betray her. The nerve, the sheer brass neck of it. She kept her footsteps light and even, breathing deeply.

"No problem," called Sherlock breezily. "I can always ring out for it."

Joan shut her bedroom door and leaned back against it. Her eyes were stinging. She shook her head. Tears of anger. That's what they were. Anger.

 


	9. Chapter 9

Joan woke early and dressed, determined to make it downstairs before Sherlock. She sipped her smoothie in the kitchen, listening for his languid step in the hall, but all was quiet.

After a while she went into the den to watch TV and found him asleep on the floor where she'd left him.

It actually took her several moments to decide that she would put a blanket over him. That she was not petty. That she cared for him as another human being who would get chills if she let him carry on sleeping on a cold hard floor. That she was able to nurture him in a basic, human way even though he didn't deserve it.

As she lay the blanket across him, he opened his eyes. "Don't hover, Watson, it's very off-putting." He threw the blanket off and sat up. "Come on, let's go. Is it raining yet?"

"Why would it be raining?"

"Because I want to visit an umbrella seller."

He grabbed the mug of Mrs Bissell's tea and made for the door. "Better bring a coat, the forecast is awful."

* * *

 

Joan watched him as they navigated the subway with a mug of cold tea. He appeared to have no sensibility of having offended her.

It was like living with a child, she thought, not for the first time. His world revolved around him, and because he did not experience regular emotions, he assumed nobody else did either.

You just had to forgive him. And forgive him, and forgive him.

Did she have the strength for that?

She hung onto the subway train pole and did not know the answer to that question.

Sherlock lunged forward and wrapped his arms around Joan, swinging her round and placing her down close beside him.

Before she could react, his hand shot out and punched the neck of a young pale guy who had been standing next to Joan. The guy dropped to the floor as the rest of the carriage cried out.

Sherlock bent down and removed a coin purse from the unconscious man's fist. "Yours I believe, madam?" He handed it to a stunned female passenger.

The train was slowing into a station. Sherlock stepped over the body and extended his hand to Joan. "Come on, Watson, this is our stop."

At these moments, she could forgive him anything.

 

* * *

 

They emerged on Fifth Avenue under a bright sky. "Not much sign of rain " Joan commented.

"No, but look." Sherlock pointed to a small stall loaded with hats, scarves and sunglasses. The stall holder, a tall, thin black man, was uncovering more wares from their protective plastic wrap - a large basket of umbrellas. "It's going to rain."

Joan concurred. In New York, the umbrella sellers just knew.

Sherlock approached the stall holder. "I don't want to buy an umbrella," he said, "but I would like you to have a taste of my cup of tea."

"You trying to poison me or what?"

"No.. I want you to tell me if it contains qat."

The man sipped it suspiciously. Then his eyes brightened. "There's qat in it,' he said. "Where did you get this?"

"You'd be amazed. Thank you. now, how much is an umbrella? 10 dollars. Here's fifteen for your trouble. I'll keep the tea though."

Sherlock hurried away, mug in one hand, phone in the other. "Just messaging Gregson, with a spare reason to detain Bissell while they investigate arson, fraud and his missing daughter." he told Joan. "Posession of a Schedule 1 drug."

 


	10. Chapter 10

"How do you know qat?" Joan asked.

Sherlock was striding along, mouth set, eyes searching the street. At last he spotted what he sought - a cop car, parked. He leaned in through the window. "Excuse me. Could you give this to Captain Gregson from Sherlock Holmes? I've written his details on the bottom of the cup. Thanks - and don't spill it, it's vital evidence. Thanks."

And he was off again, darting through the crowds with Joan hurrying after him as the sky clouded over and it began to rain.

"Qat is widely used by the Somali and Ethiopian communities in London," Sherlock explained as they boarded a train to a suburb Joan had barely heard of. "It's a plant, the leaves of which can be chewed very slowly to produce a kind of high. Experts say the effects vary between chilled out relaxation, or manic babbling. There's a strong link between usage and marriage breakdown, also suicide."

They found seats and Joan noticed how Sherlock, at ease anywhere, immediately stretched out his legs and folded his arms, tilting his head back to expound at the grubby ceiling.

"It's not actually illegal in Britain, though it's heading that way. If you sit outside a cafe on the Roman Road in Bethnal Green, it won't be long before you're asked for it or offered it." He paused. "But it's very illegal here. Naughty Mr Bissell."

"Ok," said Joan, "so what are the Bissells doing with it?"

Sherlock sighed. "The original congregation of that church had a contingent of immigrants from Ethiopia and Somalia. Ethiopia is a big Christian country, Somalia less so. I guess Bissell encountered qat use and thought of a way he could turn it to his advantage. Because, you see, recent immigrants rarely have much insight into the financial systems of their new country. And church congregations are often made up of older, sometimes vulnerable people.

"Bissell got qat and put it in a herbal tea for his congregation. Whether they recognised it, as our umbrella retailer friend did, or not, still it's a drug which helps people let their guard down. And when they were feeling very trusting, Mr Bissell offered to help them with any money problems they might have. The people told me at the fire that he had totally looked after them since their spouses died, managing pensions, state allowances, even advising on property matters."

"Don't tell me " said Joan. "He wasn't doing this for love."

"Definitely for profit. And the Bissells don't own that delightful penthouse. The church does. They sold it to the church at a nice above market price, and lease it back. I imagine that it's next on the arson hit list. "

The train rattled on, the tracks raised above factories and houses. Joan looked down into oil storage depots and scruffy back yards. "Where are we going?" she asked.

"To meet the imaginary boyfriend and stop Cara Bissell in her latest mission of righteousness."

 


	11. Chapter 11

"Cara is clever," Sherlock said. "And she wants to punish her parents and the none too imaginary Ryan."

"Hold on, " said Joan. " She punished her parents by running away. Right. I get that. "

"Aha," said Sherlock, holding up his phone to Joan. "The pig flesh in the church - here is Captain Gregson's text update confirming my idea. The hunt for Cara, alive and well, resumes."

They were in a beige street: modern apartment blocks, strip malls of utilitarian shops, cleaners, shoe mending places, and further up the way, some office blocks.  
"The search resumes, and it ends," Sherlock said, pointing to a figure lingering in the landscaped front garden of the offices.

Joan peered at the figure - a girl, tall, blonde, dressed in blue jeans and a pale sweatshirt - and drew a sharp breath.

Sherlock called out as they approached. "We are friends and we want to help you get him."

The girl turned calmly towards them. It was Cara Bissell.

* * *

 

They sat in the cheap cafe between the dry cleaners and the video rental. Joan had organised hot drinks. Sherlock was expounding.

"You wanted to punish your parents by running away- "

"I'm sure my parents were crushed." Cara spoke in a measured voice which held only a trace of her bitterness.

" -but you understood that this usually reliable teenage strategy would not work on your highly devout, and highly self interested parents." Sherlock gave Cara a raised eyebrows look.

"Ok," she said. "Let me guess: my father made a big show of worrying about me when he was really worrying about - something else. And my mother just sat there and calmly said that I was fine because a higher power had chosen me."

"Spot on. So far, so predictable. Knowing your parents' history you chose a different tack, which served the twin purposes of destroying something they truly hold dear, and exposing a fraud which repulsed you -and which had separated you from your happy life back in Brokenstone."

Cara looked at Joan. For a fifteen year old girl, she had a remarkably strong and steady air. Joan recognised it instantly. The confidence, the reliance on one's superior intellect, the unshakeable self belief: these all belonged to Cara - and to Sherlock.

"They ruined my life and wrecked my innocence," Cara said. "They lied to my friends and their parents. They stole from people they are duty bound to protect. They took me from my home. They broke their promise to me, and to God."

She challenged Sherlock with a glare, to deny this calm list of crimes.

Sherlock waved a hand in acknowledgement. "So you found a friend and persuaded them to place some meat plus an old scarf of yours, in the church, knowing that your father would start his exit strategy, that is, a fire, at the first sign of trouble."

Cara was scornful. "Wrong in two ways. Firstly, I don't have any friends here. Secondly, I would never perjure a friend by involving them in such a thing."

"You didn't leave it there yourself... "said Joan.

"No. I got UPS to deliver it to the church, with a special instruction to leave it in the back porch if the church was locked, as I knew it would be." Cara glanced again rather proudly at Sherlock. "My parents don't go in much for actual sermonizing. Takes too much time away from the theft and the lies."

"Of course," said Sherlock. "So ... you escaped from your apartment without your parents seeing you, took the car and drove to somewhere familiar - your mother's hair salon perhaps, somewhere which would not arouse suspicion when you rang the chauffeur firm to have it picked up."

"He's good," said Cara to Joan. "I would almost expect him to be with the police."

"What makes you think I'm not?"

"You would never fit their psych profile," Cara said, and Joan stifled a laugh.

"Also, I would never accept their ploddingly tedious methodology," said Sherlock. Joan noticed that he did not disagree with Cara.

"Ok," Joan said. "Where have you been all weekend? Hotels have been on alert to watch for a young girl travelling alone, maybe posing as someone older or claiming to be joining a parent later."

"I know where," said Sherlock.

"You don't."

This could go on all night, Joan thought. "Please, just tell us."

"You tell me your theory," said Cara to Sherlock. "But you'll be wrong."

For the first time, Joan could hear a fifteen year old in her voice, a playful teasing like an echo from a dim cave.

"Fine." Sherlock steepled his fingers. "You had some cash saved from lunch money or whatever. You used it to get an adult to book you into a hotel under his or her name, and actually checked in with them. You then paid them, they left, and you've been in your room all weekend ordering room service and watching the drama unfold on TV."

Cara turned to Joan with a pitying look. "I take it back. He has no clue." She gave Sherlock a withering smile. "How much lunch money do you think a girl gets these days? Enough for three nights in a hotel plus room service? Dream on. Also, lunch money is virtual - your parents load up the account, then you pay for your lunch with a thumbprint. It is supposed to stop bullying."

Sherlock twitched.

"She really is clever," Joan told him. "Just like you said."

"Where did you spend sixty-odd hours then?" Sherlock asked Cara, ignoring Joan.

Cara lifted her chin. "I spent my time as my parents should have spent theirs - ministering to the homeless and desperate on the streets of this unpleasant city."

Joan was horrified. "That's incredibly dangerous!"

Cara shook her head. "You forget. My parents' faith may be a sham but my own is not. I had was watched over by God. Also, I'm not stupid. I took care to minimise risk."

She glanced down at her sweatshirt, where there was a small appliqueed cross.

"And now you're here," Sherlock said. "And there's another mission you want to complete before you head back to Brokenstone."

"Wait," Joan said. "You're a runaway minor and we need to return you to your family. If your parents are being investigated, there are safe places for you -"

"Hold on," Sherlock interrupted, gesturing up the road towards the bland office building. "That nondescript edifice houses a computer supplies firm. Cara has a special interest in one of the employees, a certain Ryan Channard."

Cara narrowed her eyes. "How do you know about him?"

"He led us to you, unintentionally. He runs a website which purports to offer help with homework but which is just a cover for his pet business of providing alibis and fake boyfriends.

"Obviously this does not make enough money to support him. I knew he would have to have a full time job. A bit of searching last night while you were asleep, Watson, led me here. Given the timing of Cara's disappearance, it made sense that she would lie low over the weekend and then arrive at Ryan's workplace to expose him in front of as many people as possible."

"And what has he done?" Joan asked. "It might be morally dubious, but I don't think it's a crime to provide those services."

"Maybe," said Cara. "But grooming young girls on the internet will definitely get the police's attention."

"What!" Joan looked from Cara to Sherlock and saw disturbingly similar smug expressions.

"Come on," said Sherlock, making for the cafe door. "Let's do it."

* * *

 

Ryan's office was on the second floor, an open plan area filled with flimsy cubicles and boxes ready for the mail. Staff tapped at computers or talked boredly into phones.

"Ryan Channard?" called Sherlock loudly, and everyone looked up.

A young guy with a greasy fringe stood up. "What's up?"

Then he saw Cara and his face wobbled. He turned and tried to scramble away but Joan was already at the entrance to his cube, blocking him in.

Cara spoke in a voice which could fill a cathedral. "You drew me in. You created a website to provide automated fake boyfriends for lonely, vulnerable women, and then you contacted them and offered a more personal service. You befriended me at a time when I was weak and low."

She had everyone's attention now. The secretary had stopped, one hand still on the phone, from her initial move to call the police.

"You talked to me and found out all about me. You encouraged me to run away from home. You encouraged me to meet you and form a sexual relationship."

Gasps from around the office.

"You preyed on me as you have done on your other clients. But I am a little different, and you knew this. You knew that I am only fifteen years old!"

"Dial now," said Sherlock to the secretary. "Captain Gregson, NYPD."

Cara stepped closer to Ryan. "You are a sick man," she said clearly. "You need help, and for that I pity you. But you also need punishment, and for that reason I will provide the full history of our contact to the child protection authorities."

"You can't prove anything!" Ryan shouted then. "One innocent mistake, about your age, you can't prove it was any more than that!"

"Oh but I can," Sherlock said, holding up his phone. "I'm Sherlock Holmes, consultant with the NYPD. But you have been getting to know me a little better as fourteen year old Candy."


	12. Chapter 12

Joan and Sherlock had to sit separately from Cara in the police waiting room. A social worker sat beside her, holding a clipboard and frowning as she tried to keep up with Cara's rapid descriptions.

Her possessions, few as they were, lay in a plastic baggie on her lap.

"I wonder if she'll go back to her parents, or get a state appointed guardian," Joan said, curling her wrist around the twelve ounce cup of coffee she'd been sipping the last forty minutes

Sherlock hissed at her. "Shush! I'm listening."

Joan paused. It was impossible to make out Cara's words from across the room and over the hubbub of background precinct busyness. "Don't try to tell me you're lipreading," Joan said.

Sherlock's eyes never left Cara. "Learned it at school. Very handy for finding out what the teachers really thought about you, and what the school bullies hoped to be beating you up with when the break time bell rang. Now please, I am concentrating."

Gregson appeared and hooked his finger at them. In his office, he closed the door and said, "We arrested Ryan Channard no problem, but we can't find any evidence to back up the girl's claims about her parents' fraud. Even the arson, which admittedly looks suspicious - all we have is circumstantial."

He shook his head. "I don't feel good about this. but I have to let the girl go home and let the state worry about her stories about embezzlement and pension fraud. I got nothing on either of the Bissells."

"What about the qat?" Sherlock asked. "Surely possession - and supply - of a category one substance is enough to pull the Bissells in."

Gregson nodded. "It is, but it will take months to process that prosecution. The Bissells are clever, good looking and pillars of their community. They'll have their own talk show before the qat thing comes to trial."

"Will the financial records show whether money has been scammed from the congregation?" Joan said. "If not the Bissells', then the people themselves...?"

Gregson looked sour.

"Let me guess," Sherlock said. "They've closed ranks against all implication of wrong doing on the part of their beloved pastor."

"Yup."

"Classic victim psychology," Sherlock said. "They've given him everything, but now they're worried in case he loses it. Whereas in reality, that money is long gone. "

"It's lining his pockets somewhere," Gregson agreed. "But we can't find which pants those pockets are in. We can't even find if he's recorded anything about the money, never mind where it went."

"So the Bissells haven't done anything illegal with their congregation's money?" Joan asked.

"We can't find anyone except their daughter who says they have. And she's a minor, and their daughter."

"But she's bright," Sherlock said, "and all of this has been her plan." He frowned. "Why go to all this trouble if her parents could not then be exposed?"

"Revenge," Joan suggested.

Sherlock shook his head. "We've missed something," he said. "Some other piece of the puzzle that is Cara Bissell. She made us think she was the victim when she wasn't. She got her parents suspected in a murder enquiry, however briefly. She righted a wrong done to her by a man with a penchant for underage girls. And all she wants is to go back to the life of happy poverty she knew before her parents' first crime."

He grimaced. "It's all just a little bit sickly, don't you think? A virtuous young woman defeating the forces of evil ranked around her like some Puritanical fable?"

"You're just bent out of shape because she found the flaws in your logic," Gregson said. "-Ms Watson told me about your wrong guesses."

When Toby said Ms Watson, Joan still heard, Joanie.

"There was nothing wrong with my logic," Sherlock said sharply. "Cara Bissell did an illogical thing. Humans are not logical beings, Captain Gregson, as well you know."

"Simmer down, Mr Spock," said Gregson, raising his hands. "I suggest you both go home. The state is taking care of Cara Bissell, and my people are going back over the Bissells' financials. Whether they admit it or not, those people from the church have been misled, and when we find the money we'll prosecute to the fullest extent of the law."

"So I am not to worry my pretty little head about it?" Sherlock said. "Lovely, such a relief. Come on, Watson, let's go and do a bit of shoe shopping, there are some wonderful Manilas you simply must see." He jumped to his feet.

"Even I know those shoes are called Manolos," said Gregson. "Boy, you really are off form."

Joan pursed her lips. Something here was not right. Sherlock didn't make mistakes - not mistakes about detail. If he wasn't certain of a detail, he wouldn't specify it. And Toby - what was the sniping all about, why couldn't the two of them just work together as they usually did?

With an inner jolt she wondered if it could be about her.

She stopped that thought. It was the greatest weakness to assign the behaviour of others to your own internal dilemmas.

As Sherlock glared at Toby and he smiled sarcastically back, Joan thought: they really are just kids, the pair of them. Whether it is about me or not, they're just facing each other down like a pair of teenagers in the yard, and later on they'll be fine, racing down the sidewalk on equally battered bikes.

The image came to her so powerfully that she smiled. Two boys, in fact a big gang of kids, cycling at speed through a leafy street with a small row of stores and a little church at the end...

Her eyes widened. She'd just channelled someone's idea of perfect small-town America - but not her idea.

"Sherlock -" she began, turning to him.

He tilted his chin towards her but remained eyes-locked with Gregson. "Yes, Watson? Shoe shopping insufficiently appealing? Maybe we should just go out for tea and cake, see if we can spot any celebrities. Wouldn't want to overtax our feeble little brains, now would we?"

"Sherlock, the -"

The plastic bag containing Cara's belongings smashed against the glass window of Gregson's office and burst, sending coins, Kleenex and lip gloss in all directions.

Sherlock wrenched open the door.

Cara stood still and calm in the open plan office. "I will come back to the apartment," she said. "But I am not having a social worker hovering over me every minute. God safeguards me. And the two of you should look to your own business before getting a stranger to watch over mine."

Mr and Mrs Bissell were standing, shocked, with the female social worker.

"Just come home then, honey," said Mrs Bissell. "We don't need a social worker."

"Thank you," said Cara. She turned to the woman. "I appreciate your concern. But I am perfectly safe with my parents."

The Bissells, all three of them, made for the exit.

"Interesting," said Sherlock. "Very interesting."

The look was back, Joan saw - the sharply focused gleam in his eye which she loved to see.

He threw her a glance and half a smile. "Come along, Watson. Let's get out of Captain Gregson's hair and take a restorative walk. I fancy a constitutional... perhaps somewhere with a pretty view."

Toby looked weary. He heaved a sigh, with a little nod to Joan.

Sherlock smirked and held out his arm to Joan. "Shall we?"

She took his arm, rolling her eyes at had no idea what path he was now following, but it did not matter. She was on it with him.

 


	13. Chapter 13

"Not much of a view," Joan said.

It was later that afternoon and they were sitting on stools in a donut shop not far from Cara's school, feet against the front window, watching the start of rush hour.

"Ssh," said Sherlock. "I am trying to enter the mind state of a fifteen year old girl. It is already difficult enough given thirty years of age difference and a gender discrepancy, and sarcastic comments are not helping."

"Fine," said Joan. She returned to thinking about Cara, and her dream of Brokenstone.

Sherlock lasted about ten seconds in silence. Then with an impatient wriggle on the stool, he spoke.

"Cara wanted something from her parents' flat," he said. "And she got rid of the social worker to make it easier to get out again."

"Won't her parents be watching her like hawks?" Joan asked.

"I think they'll be preoccupied with the exit strategy, that is, getting the money out before the police dig through their financials."

"What do you think Cara wanted from the apartment? She already left, taking what she needed."

"Good point. Something has happened to change her plans... "Sherlock wriggled his fingers and shivered. Sitting still, waiting, was anathema to him. "What can it be?"

He lapsed into silence again, scowling. Then said, "Watson, pop to the counter and get more donuts, would you? "

Joan sighed. "I do all the grocery shopping you know."

"And I do all the thinking. Now, come on. our blood sugar levels may be dangerously low, impairing our judgement."

He was giving her the look, the smug look with a twist of a smile in it, which really irritated her, but which nonetheless always worked because ... It just did. His cause and effect smile, she thought.

_One day_ , she thought, _I am going to smile right back and make him fall off his perch._

This cheered her up and jumped off the stool. "Fine," she said, "I'll get more, but you can pay for these ones. Unless you want me to start a tab with the shop-?"

She was being sarcastic, but instead of sniping back, Sherlock's eyes widened. "A tab! Watson, that's brilliant!"

She waited. But he had snatched up his phone and was tapping madly.

Joan sighed and went to replenish the stock of supposedly teen type donuts.

When she returned Sherlock was rubbing his jaw and giving passers by a laser look, causing some of them to flinch away. Joan sat down warily.

"We're going to see Cara walk past very soon." Sherlock was brimming with excitement. "And now I know where the money is, too."

"I knew all that googling couldn't be for nothing," Joan said.

"I've been enquiring of the department for schools how I can stop my beloved young son being mercilessly bullied for his lunch money," Sherlock said. "And they've been most supportive."

He showed Joan his phone. "There are a number of options for the concerned parent. Favourite among them is the one Cara mentioned - a bio recognition system where the student's thumbprint serves as a credit cars, allowing then to debit their account. Basically this only works when the student is present and at the pay point, they are under observation so no chance of someone using your thumb to pay for their lunch, so to speak."

"Ok," said Joan.

"Cara was very snide about my wrong guess as to her weekend whereabouts," Sherlock said. "But I think I may have inadvertently given her the ultimate way to wreak revenge on her parents - and, perhaps, to undo the wrongs done in Brokenstone."

"The money," said Joan. "She wants to take the money."

"Yes," said Sherlock, "but where is the money? The police cannot find it. The Bissells have hidden it somewhere."

"Here's the thing," he went on. "I checked with Cara's school, and while they are looking into it, they don't yet have the thumbprint system for lunch payments. It's too expensive to install. So they have the next best thing, a card which you charge up."

"Ok..." said Joan.

"Which means she lied to us."

"Oh." Joan blinked. "And if she did, that means..."

"She is not the lily white character she makes herself out to be. Exactly. And, Watson, I believe that as she spoke to sneer at my wrong guess, she realised where her parents had hidden the money."

"On the lunch card? No!"

"Yes."

"But doesn't it show the balance when you pay for things?"

"Apparently not. It's like the Oystercard system on the London Underground - it just keeps working until you run out of cash. You can check your balance online, which I imagine is something her parents would normally do, but it isn't displayed when you use the card day to day."

"So Cara might have had thousands of dollars on her card and not known?"

"Yes, enough for a very big lunch indeed."

"So that's what she went back home to fetch! The lunch card!"

"Precisely." Sherlock patted Joan's knee. For a second, his fingers splayed and his hand moved half an inch across her denimed knee. Then he drew his hand back quickly.

_Really?_ thought Joan. _Here, now?_

Sometimes she thought he only really saw her at the end of an investigation. It was as if the act of resolution cleared a tiny space in his mind, a little room where Joan the woman could step in next to Watson the associate.

It was the imaginary friend thing again, she realised, except that to him, Joan the woman was the imaginary one.

Sherlock shot her a look and she knew he'd noticed her slow response to his last remark. She thought quickly. "There's still a problem. How do you redeem the money on the card?"

"That," said Sherlock, hand straying towards her again and then pulling back reflexively, "is the question. But I think we're about to be shown the answer. Here she is."

Cara, in a neat sweater and skirt, walked right past the window with her earphones in, head down. Joan and Sherlock leaned away from the glass, but Cara did not glance their way.

"Let's go," said Sherlock.

"Wait," said Joan. "Someone is following her. Who's that?"

She cut her eyes at an older man, in a beige rain jacket and baggy pants, trailing Cara by a few steps.

Sherlock's eyes lit up. "Of course! It's all falling into place now."

"I don't recognise him."

"You didn't speak to him. I did, though. Picture him in a flat cap. Standing with a woman in traditional east African dress."

"They were watching the fire at the church," Joan said. "They told you about Brokenstone."

"And they wouldn't tell Gregson anything about missing money or being fleeced by their pastor. "

"And now he's following Cara."

"He's not alone, either." Sherlock pointed.

Joan saw another elderly man steadily making his way along the street. He walked with a stick, but kept looking up to check the position of the pair ahead. "Another church member...?"

Sherlock slid off the stool. "Come on, Watson, let's form a convoy."

As they walled, Sherlock talked, clutching Joan's arm.

"The thing is that most schools set up a minimum and maximum balance rule for the lunch money cards. Cara's school didn't. The Bissells must have noticed this and found a perfect way to hide the money."

Joan reflected. "How do you charge the account? If it's online, there'll be a trail. The police will just find it."

"That's the beauty of this," Sherlock said, eyes gleaming. "Cara's school is very old fashioned. You load the card by putting cash into a machine." He laughed aloud.

Joan wrinkled her forehead. "Really? Bissell must have spent ages putting cash in the machine."

"Time consuming but it means the money is impossible to trace. I predict that school surveillance cameras will show a series of visits coinciding with his visits to vulnerable members of the congregation. He relieved them of their cash -perhaps promising to put it into a high interest savings account for them, or some such - and translated it into lunch."

"But what about getting it back?"

"You can request a refund when your child graduates... or moves districts, for example if your parents suddenly move away to find new work... after a tragic fire... " Sherlock smirked at Joan and gave her arm a squeeze. "Cara was heading for a super, super sweet sixteen, if only she'd known it."

 


	14. Chapter 14

Class was over for the day but there were still plenty of students and faculty around as Joan and Sherlock reached the gates of Cara's school.

Joan stopped. "We can't just walk in."

She indicated the security plate at the gate. Each student tapped their little plastic token, worn on a lanyard, against the plate as they left. Students going in did the same. In gaps between entries and exits, the gate clanged shut.

"Tailgating would work but would attract attention." Sherlock pulled out his phone.

"How did Cara's guests get in?" Joan wondered.

"I expect her doting grandparents came in with her."

"Her African American grandparents?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Who are we to judge the make up of a twenty-first century dispersed family?"

"You'd better not be suggesting I could someone's grandma," Joan said.

"How about mom?" said Sherlock.

Joan narrowed her eyes.

"Calm down, Watson, I have an alternative route into the school." He felt in his coat pockets. "I made contact with the cleaning contractors, who also have security access to the school."

"All this while I was getting more donuts?"

"In this job, Watson, it is important to be able to work fast." Sherlock held up a plastic security token in a lanyard marked Cleaning. "...Also, my phone call confirmed that the school uses the same firm as the NYPD, and luckily I lifted a cleaner's pass from Gregson's office a few weeks back in case it came in handy."

Joan heaved a sigh. "Ok, you're brilliant. Where do we go?"

Sherlock led them to a side gate flanked by tall cylindrical metal bin. "In here."

* * *

 

They moved through the school's echoing corridors, Joan first wearing the lanyard. "You just look more like someone who would clean," Sherlock said.

"You're not wrong," Joan told him, eyeing his unshaven chin and rumpled clothes.

Sherlock gave her a wary glance.

"Here's the canteen," he said.

They peered through the windows in the restaurant's swing doors. "There's the card machine," said Joan. "And Cara."

They watched as Cara punched buttons on the slab which was the lunch money machine. The elderly church members stood by. Then the machine bleeped, and rattled and shook like Vegas slots paying out. Cara darted forward and scooped up handfuls of coins and notes. She counted them out rapidly into the hands of the waiting men, and then checked her phone.

The old people nodded and moved away.

Sherlock and Joan ducked back as the doors opened and they emerged, stuffing cash into their pockets.

Cara was on the phone.

"Time to make ourselves known?" said Sherlock. He pushed the door open and Cara looked up.

She froze. Slowly she closed her phone and put it away. She waited as Joan and Sherlock walked across and then stopped by her, Sherlock perching on the nearest table.

He folded his arms.

"Unsurprisingly," he told Cara, "the school lunch money machine doesn't hold that much cash."

Cara stared at him coldly. Still she did not speak.

"While I admire your enterprise in righting your parents' wrongs, your methods leave much to be finessed."

At last Cara spoke. "This money belongs to those people. Most of it. The rest is, I imagine, the funds gained from the fire at Brokenstone. I intend to return that too."

"You need to go to the police," Joan told her. "They can retrieve the money and return it to its rightful owners."

"That will take months," Cara said. "This needs to be set right now. "

"But the machine is empty, is it not?" said Sherlock. "So where will you get the remainder?"

Cara looked at him. Her face gave nothing away but her stance was angry.

"If you promise not to charge me with abduction of a minor, I can help," said Sherlock. "It needs a taxi ride, though."

Cara put her head to one side.

Such strength, Joan thought. Still thinking, calculating, even as she is being discovered.

"Some other schools in this district use the same cash system for their lunch money," Sherlock said. "And we have a security pass for most of them."

Joan held up the lanyard.

"But we will call Captain Gregson and let him know what we're doing," Sherlock said. "So if you want to redistribute the non Brokenstone funds, it would be good to arrange the parishioners to meet us as we reach the final school, before the police arrive."

Cara looked at Joan. "I bet he's kind of a high maintenance boyfriend," was all she said.

* * *

 

"So now she has a new project," Gregson said, sitting down heavily at his desk. "Not content with undoing all the theft, Cara Bissell has now declared that she has made it her mission to convert her own parents back into what she called the true path of virtue."

He sighed and shook his head.

"Maybe we should get her a cape," suggested Sherlock.

"Don't encourage her," warned Gregson. "I know you helped her. You're lucky I didn't collar you for it."

"Collar me? What a quaint British expression. Hankering after our time in London? We were rather a magnificent crime fighting team."

Gregson waved them away. "It's late, I'm tired, and I have to write this up in such a way as to not have to arrest you too and give myself even more paperwork. So get out."

He gave Joan a smile as they left. "Bye, Ms Watson."

She smiled.

"Get some dinner," he said. "Sherlock never eats when he's on a case."

"You'd be surprised," she said. "I had to get extra donuts this afternoon."

Gregson winced. "Please. I don't want to know."

"Night, Toby."

"Night, Joan."

"Come on, Watson!" came a bellow from down the hall. "I've got a table at Balthazar and I don't want you to make us late!"

Joan placed the cleaner's lanyard back on Gregson's desk and followed Sherlock with a smile.

High maintenance was not the half of it.

 


	15. Chapter 15

It was night, and in the crowded French restaurant Joan, in a plain grey jersey tunic and black cocktail trousers, sat opposite Sherlock, in his least crumpled coat and a cravat.

Sherlock put down the menu.

"Twice now we have caught her in the act of deception, and she has remained unfazed. Her nerve is considerable."

"You admire her," Joan said.

"As an intellect," Sherlock said. "As a character. I would not want to be placed in the same category as the unsavoury Ryan. But I predict great things for Cara Bissell."

"If she can refrain from deceit," Joan said.

"I said great, Watson. Not good. These experiences have almost certainly warped her young mind and she would have to be truly exceptional to avoid further involvement in criminal, or at the very least, illicit activities."

"What a ray of sunshine you are," Joan said drily.

"I merely extrapolate based on my own experience of these areas." Sherlock glanced around as if cataloguing the misdeeds of everyone there.

"Ok. But let's stick to the present and order some food. The staff are ready to kick us out for loitering." Joan tapped the menu at him.

"Nonsense. And if they give us any trouble I will tell the manager I've seen him swapping labels on the ten dollar wine for the ones on the sixty dollar stuff. Guess which bottle the customer actually gets brought to their table?"

"You haven't seen any such thing,"Joan hissed, glancing at the restaurant manager, standing beside the bar.

"No, but I can tell when a label has been reglued." Sherlock held up their bottle of glacial mineral water. "And if they do it for the water..."

"All right, all right. Just order, please!"

Sherlock smirked, reached across and took her hand. "Hungry?" he asked.

"I just want to eat, and get home."

His eyes crinkled even more. "That's kind of what I asked."

Joan looked down at her hand enclosed in his, just her fingertips seen, curled over the back of his warm hand.

She looked so long, feeling heat radiating from him to her, that Sherlock glanced down too.

At last she raised her head, and their eyes locked. His left cheek gave a faint twitch but otherwise his expression was an unreadably intense as ever.

Her cheeks felt flushed. But she had, she found, come to a decision. "Let's go home," she said.

* * *

 

You can never go back on intimacy. Once done, a thing is done. You know too much.

Joan had examined her feelings over and over and not resolved them. She was aware of them but this, until now, had not helped her to move forward.

Guilt. Self loathing. Regret... a little. And desire. That had been the most difficult. How could she desire a man who treated her, and everyone, as mere adjuncts to his own needs? She had struggled with this, questioning her self respect and wondering if this was some new aspect of her self imposed punishment, that she should seek out such an unequal, and unrewarding relationship.

Yet she was coming to accept that it was more complicated, and simpler, than that. She was attracted to him physically and intellectually. The relationship aspect was many-layered and would never fit a category. And she began to understand that Sherlock's own assessment of her was truer than she had wanted to admit: that she resented pigeonholes and convention as much as he did. Why, then, would her relationships be straightforward?

Sherlock did not suffer any of this. She knew it. He looked at her, clear eyed, and seemed content.

x

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The End

x

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x

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* * *

 

**Author's note** :

**Qat** \- I actually was asked about qat a long time ago when sitting outside a cafe in Bethnal Green, (by coincidence right opposite the hospital Sherlock BBC jumped off). It's still around in Britain though I'm sure it's not as ubiquitous as Sherlock makes it sound. And it is legal but surely not for long given the nasty effects it has on families.

**Lunch money** \- apparently it is all now electronic like an oyster card or done with thumbprint recognition, as mentioned here. Also pupils swipe in and out of class with RFID tokens. Whatever happened to calling the register...

**Church fraud** \- a startling amount of this has happened in the States in recent years. My favourite was the Miracle Car Scam: look it up if you want to be horrified. I wanted to make the Bissells more into real fruitcakes, to separate them from the many non fraudulent pastors, but there wasn't room. To compensate I made Cara sincere in her faith but left it vague about which flavour, mostly due to my own ignorance of the fine differences in denominations.

**Fake boyfriend** sites are also real. I don't advise using them though.

 


End file.
